The driver glanced at him in the mirror, surprised but professional, and said nothing. The car obeyed, gliding away from glass towers and into quieter streets where ambition didn’t roar—it lingered.
As the Rolls-Royce entered the old neighborhood, the contrast felt almost cruel. Narrow roads, modest homes, porch lights glowing softly. This was a place Alex had tried to erase, because memories were easier to outrun than confront. His chest tightened as the car slowed in front of a small two-story house, its garden trimmed with care rather than money. It looked unchanged, as if time had politely refused to interfere.
Alex stepped out alone, waving off the driver. The air felt different here—cooler, heavier with meaning. Each step along the stone path echoed louder than it should have. The door, weathered and familiar, stood between who he had become and who he once was.
He rang the bell.
Seconds stretched thin, taut with expectation. Then the door opened.
Sofia stood there.
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